A recent issue of the Spectator featured a surprising article. It was self-critical, apolitical and highly readable. Commissioning editor Mary Wakefield made a confession about her reading habits: she has a passion for romantic fiction, specifically Mills & Boon.
Mention of those two names brought back memories of the 1970s that I had repressed in favour of strikes, power cuts and disappointing music. It was not Britain’s finest decade, and yet the nation’s literature still stood out, mainly at newsagents and airports. These were the chief repositories of romantic fiction, far from the gaze of sniffy booksellers and readers of the Times Literary Supplement.
